


Next year, in Baker Street

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Established Relationship, Fluff, I just really needed to write something light and fun after s4, Jewish Holidays, Jewish!Sherlock, M/M, Mary? Who she?, Not Canon Compliant, both Sherlock/John and Molly/Greg, but no alcoholism, just in case you were wondering, mention of historical slavery, no knowledge of Judaism or Jewish Holidays necessary to read this fic!, no matter what your belief system I hope you enjoy it!, s3 and s4 never happened, there's a good deal of alcohol consumption, these are Jewish holidays after all, though my Jewish readers may get an extra thrill at having representation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10629351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: When John finds out that Sherlock is Jewish, he decides to make the holidays special for him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiltedsyllogism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/gifts).



> I started writing this fic right after 221b con 2016, inspired by a wonderful hot tub hangout with tiltedsyllogism (and my mom!) where we discussed our Jewish roots. Unfortunately, I didn't finish it in time for Passover, so I shelved it for a year, and here we are. Since it was conceived of a year ago, it is set in 2015-2016. This is only relevant in knowing that in 2015, Chanukah spanned the 2nd week of December, and in 2016 the first night of Passover fell on Friday, April 22nd ~ quite a bit later than this year!
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, this is not canon compliant with s3 or s4, and no Mary; canon divergent at the point of Sherlock's return. Basically this was just an excuse to write a drama-free bit of holiday fun with my boys already in a loving relationship.
> 
> Happy Passover and Shabbat Shalom!

 

 

John had never considered the Holmes family very religious; not that he ever really considered it at all, beyond half-heartedly shuddering at the thought of a petulant Sherlock and coolly aloof Mycroft at Christmas dinners with their poor parents. Both brothers were analytical and calculated in their views of the world, and if they were devoted to anything it was to logic and cold, hard facts. So when he was dragged along to the Holmes' in mid-December, he was shocked to find not a tree nor even a wisp of tinsel in sight, but rather a large brass menorah on the table and the smell of frying potatoes thick in the air.

"You're Jewish?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. _Obviously._

"Why did you never tell me you were Jewish?" John hissed, trying to keep his voice low beneath the spatter of oil and whir of the hob fan.

"It hardly seemed relevant. Besides, I'm only half-Jewish, but it's on my mother's side which is apparently what counts." He huffed. "The hereditary laws of succession are just an archaic way to keep people yoked to a belief system under the guise of ethnicity. It's not as if Mycroft and I go to synagogue or observe Shabbat."

"But at our party a few years back, you played Christmas music."

"It was a _Christmas_ party, John. And I wasn't raised in a vacuum. Carols are ubiquitous this time of year, and both my parents are quite fond of them. My father always seems to be humming that tripe, even in July."

"Wait, I could swear Mycroft mentioned your Christmas dinners before. Traumatic, that."

"Conversations with my brother usually are." He waved a hand dismissively. "Mycroft has a penchant for drama, while affecting an air of disinterested detachment. I'm sure that Christmas dinners sounded more elegant to his ear than Chanukah dinners. Must keep up appearances and all that." Sherlock paused, considering. "And I suppose it's not entirely untrue. My father is Christian, though not terribly religious. In addition to the persistent carols, Mummy always bakes his favourite Christmas sweets for dessert: gingerbread and figgy pudding and luridly-decorated cutout biscuits. Given Mycroft's proclivities, that may well constitute all of the holiday meal in his mind." He smirked. "Though he did love to hoard the chocolate gelt as a child. He was furious the year I cleaned him out with a trick dreidel."

The idea of a young Mycroft being swindled by an even younger Sherlock nearly made John smile, but he forced his lips to remain set a stern expression. "Still, you could've mentioned this earlier." He looked pointedly down at the hostess gift in his hand, wrapped in bright paper festooned with dancing Santas and candy canes.

“Don’t worry, it’s wine. What Jew doesn’t love wine?”

“Sherlock!”

 

* * *

 

Over dinner, Mrs Holmes explained the holiday's origins, though when she got to the "miracle of Chanukah" bit, Sherlock cut her off.

"That's just some nonsense they tell children to make the holiday feel magical, like Santa Claus, and to justify eight days of food and wine. It's really just a celebration of a military victory, one of the few in Jewish history, so they turned it into a weeklong excuse for midwinter revelry. All cultures seem to have something to get them through the long winter nights, incorporating light as a way to combat the oppressive dark. Having a reason to burn this many candles at once during the darkest time of the year must have felt like quite the luxury, literally brightening up their dull little lives."

"Oh hush, and let John enjoy his dinner. I'm sorry dear, our boys have never understood the magic of the holiday season."

"I refuse to let you fill John's head with ridiculous stories. He writes enough of those as it is, no need to add miracles to the mix."

"Not much for biblical tales then, I take it?" John teased.

"Oh, Sherlock was quite fascinated with his bible studies as a child. He once calculated the true size required for a functioning ark, and built a scale model, complete with food and water stores and a feeding schedule for the animals."

"Mother."

"Of course by the age of seven he was disillusioned with the whole thing, eschewing all things 'unscientific', but he did have a brief foray into the mathematical formulae of the Kabbalah."

" _Mother._ "

John grinned at Sherlock.

"So was that your favourite bible story then, Noah's ark?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Children's tales."

"Well then Adam and Eve would be right out. What about the Tower of Babel?"

"Oh no,” Mrs Holmes chirruped, passing the applesauce to John. “That was Mycroft's favourite, before he moved on to Leviticus." Sherlock looked at his mother in surprise. "Before your time, sweetie." Mycroft was staring daggers at them both, and Sherlock caught his eye with a smirk.

"Hmm..." John mused. "What about Joseph? Bright man who's shunned for his prescient talents and rude delivery, but who eventually uses his skill and wit to save a nation? Sounds like someone I know." He gave Sherlock's knee a squeeze under the table. _Also the whole faking his own death thing_ , John thought, but decided not to get into that tonight.

"Funny that you mention it, John—did you know, Sherlock actually played Joseph in their shul play."

John's eyes were wide as saucers. "No."

"Oh yes, you know the one, that musical, what was it called again dear?" She turned to her husband, who spoke for the first time since the meal began.

"Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat."

"That's it! He's always been better at remembering popular culture than I am, quite the theatre fan." She patted his arm with a smile.

"Let me get this straight: Sherlock, this Sherlock, sang and danced, on stage, in a 'technicolour dreamcoat'?"

" _John..._ "

"Oh yes, he was fabulous! They both were."

John looked at Mycroft incredulously.

" _No_. Really?" Mycroft's face was contorted in a moue of discomfort. "Let me guess, one of the meddling older brothers." Mycroft lifted his chin.

“Reuben,” Sherlock piped up with vindictive glee.

“God, I’d give anything to have seen that.”

“I think I have an old VHS recording of it somewhere.”

“NO!” both sons shouted in unison, looking horrorstruck. John giggled.

“Good to know.”

The rest of the night passed without incident, surprisingly pleasant despite the presence of both Holmes brothers in confined quarters. But Sherlock ate, ate more than John had ever seen him eat in one sitting, even after a gruelling case. Plate after plate of fried potato pancakes slathered in applesauce and sour cream, hunks of challah dipped in honey, and gingerbread men dotted with royal icing. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes, but Sherlock ate and drank and looked, if not happy—an impossibility with Mycroft in the room—content. John wasn't sure if it was the flickering candlelight playing tricks on him or the freely flowing wine, but Sherlock looked younger than the day they had met, and he could almost see the boy Sherlock had been, spinning a dreidel at the table while his parents chattered on, scheming against his older brother and sneaking biscuits from the dessert tray. On the train ride home, Sherlock dozed on John's shoulder, face serene at rest, and John started thinking, about family and rituals, about a young boy adrift in a sea of overstimulation, and the calming comfort of tradition.

 

* * *

 

The New Year came and went, heralded by chases through London's seedy underbelly and midnight kisses and all the merriment of solving a crime on the craziest night of the year. They celebrated Sherlock's birthday with a cake from Mrs Hudson and a stack of cold cases from Lestrade and a rather spectacular massage from John. Valentine's passed with a reserved table at Angelo's and too much wine and not enough privacy and a vow that they'd skip the dinner next time and go right to the sex. And John didn't think much of holidays and traditions again until gaudy cartoon bunnies and baby chicks started popping up all over, invading the shops like a pastel infantry armed with brightly painted eggs. He was vaguely aware that Easter coincided with an important Jewish holiday, so in his breaks at the clinic, he sat at his work computer—no way he'd have a hope of privacy at home—and learned all he could about Passover.

 

* * *

 

"John, _what_ is this?" Sherlock brandished the box from the cupboard as if it held a particularly virulent poison.

"Uh, matzah? I know the label's in Hebrew, but I thought you'd recognise the brand."

"Obviously I can see that it’s matzah, there is the helpful image of the horrible stuff plastered all over the box, even if I couldn’t read Hebrew, which of course I can. What I want to know is, what is it doing in our kitchen?”

John scratched the back of his neck and kept his eyes fixed on the box in question. “I dunno, just thought you might like having some in the flat this time of year?”

“John, _nobody_ likes matzah. It’s a punishment, to remind us of a truly awful time in our history when our ancestors had nothing else to eat because they were escaping slavery. It is not some fun holiday treat.”

“Oh.” John took a deep breath and edged toward the doorway, just in case he needed a quick escape. “Well, I figured it might also come in handy for the Seder.”

“The _what?_ ”

“Friday night’s the first night of Passover, yeah? I, uh, thought we could have a Seder.”

“Why on earth would we want to do that?”

“Because… well, because it’s a part of you, Sherlock. A part of you I didn’t even know existed until a few months ago, and I hate that, the thought of this whole area of your life that I don’t know about and can’t share with you. I know it’s not something you care about anymore, but it was a part of your formative years, helped shape you into the man you are today, the man I love, and I just… I guess I just want to experience that bit of your past, with you.” He chanced a glance at Sherlock, who was just staring at him, face unreadable. “I know, it’s stupid, I’m—”

“No, John. I… I understand.”

John raised an eyebrow. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to avert his gaze.

“Sometimes, when you go out with Murray, I, um, tail you. Just to see. I can’t know what it was like, in Afghanistan, but when you’re with him, I get these little glimpses of you with your regiment, that sense of camaraderie. It helps me see that part of your life clearer, even if I can’t ever be there.” His eyes darted up to John’s, which were filled with warm amusement. Sherlock’s forehead creased. “You’re not upset.”

“You’re not as subtle as you think, Sherlock. I’m sure I don’t notice every time you decide to tag along, but you’re stupidly tall and always in that bloody coat, with that hair—you don’t exactly blend in with a crowd. Sorry to break it to you.” Sherlock looked decidedly put out.

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

John chuckled, and reached up to run his fingers through the locks in question. “Nothing, love. Absolutely nothing. It’s just a bit distracting, is all. Catches my eye. Makes me want to muss it up.” He tugged lightly, and Sherlock’s eyes went a bit unfocussed. He leaned in closer, nudged at Sherlock’s jaw with his nose. “What do you say, hm? Just a quiet dinner at home, you and me and Mrs Hudson, maybe Greg and Molly?” Sherlock made a little discontented noise, but he tipped his head back to expose more of his throat. “No family, no Mycroft, I promise.”

“You'd better,” Sherlock grumbled, but there was no heat to it.

“Trust me, I don't want your brother skulking around our flat any more than you do. He's already too involved in our business, no need to ruin our days off too.”

“Mmm…” Sherlock hummed, and slumped against John. “Now you're just buttering me up.”

John ran the tip of his tongue up Sherlock's neck, eliciting a soft gasp. “Is it working?”

Any intended reply dissolved into a moan as John licked the shell of his ear. Sherlock did have a weakness for aural stimulation, which John was not above using to his advantage. “I'll take that as a yes,” he growled with a nip to the lobe, and then Sherlock was in no state for coherent discourse for quite some time.

 

* * *

 

The next day there was a case, one which involved a smuggling ring and plenty of running around the city to and from storage facilities and a late night stakeout that culminated in a knife fight, and it was all just about perfect, really, aside from a small nick to Sherlock’s bicep and a few bruised ribs. Nothing that John couldn’t patch up easily at home, before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Friday arrived without fanfare, and John thought he might be able to pull this off without rousing Sherlock’s temper again.

He should have known better.

“JOHN!”

John decided to pretend he hadn’t heard, and continued scrubbing the toilet. Predictably, Sherlock stomped into the loo a minute later.

“John!”

“Mmm?”

“Where is the bread?”

“Oh, binned it this morning.”

“Binned it?” Sherlock sounded like it was a personal offence, which was rich, given how many times the bread had fallen victim to one of his many experiments.

“Yeah, for Passover, remember?”

“We aren’t actually doing that.”

“Well, _actually_ we are. Molly and Greg are coming at seven, and I’ve got loads to do before then, so if you’re done whining about the bread—”

“How am I to have toast for breakfast when you’ve binned the bread?”

John sighed and put down the scrub brush.

“First of all, it’s—” He glanced at his watch. “—two-thirty, so I’m afraid you’ve already missed the brekkie train, Sleeping Beauty. And there are other food groups than toast and take away.”

Sherlock folded his arms and scowled.

“If you think I’m going to eat matzah for breakfast, then you are sorely mistaken.”

“Look, Speedy’s is right downstairs if you want breakfast food, okay?” John grinned. “But if you’re in the mood for matzah, I bought some of the chocolate covered stuff that you might like.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparked with interest, but were quickly reigned back in to an irate squint.

“Ha ha. You know, I think you’re taking this cultural diversity thing a bit too far. Next thing you’ll tell me you’re planning to keep kosher.”

John blinked guilelessly up at him.

“Didn’t you notice I binned the rashers too?”

Sherlock gasped.

“You didn’t!” He looked shocked and wounded, as if John had insulted his intellect, and John couldn’t hold back the giggles.

“No, I didn’t, but they’re wrapped up in the freezer with the shrimp until after the holidays. No way I’m giving up garlic prawns.”

“You do realise that the Jewish dietary laws were written at a time where proper hygiene and animal husbandry were unavailable, not to mention refrigeration, and their main purpose was to maintain public health and reduce the spread of disease, and with modern advances in food preparation and storage they are horribly antiquated and nonsensical?”

“Um…”

“It’s absurd to adhere to what now amounts to a set of arbitrary rules based on outdated information.”

“Right. Well, that answers the question of why you don’t keep kosher. But I thought it might be, I dunno, interesting, just for this week, to try it out? You know, for tradition.”

“Tradition.” The word was uttered with the same disdain he used when deriding Anderson. “What’s tradition other than superstitious practices that are valued solely for their longevity? Might as well revert to blood-letting and geocentrism while you’re at it.”

“Hm, that’s big talk for someone who was, up until fairly recently, unaware of the basic mechanics of the solar system.”

“Will you ever let that go?”

“Nope, never.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“Well, I have been thoroughly educated, as people never tire of reminding me, and this is precisely my point: having been informed of the facts, I am now no longer beholden to an antiquated worldview. All this talk of tradition positively reeks of Mycroft. Next thing you’ll tell me you’ve joined the Diogenes.”

John chuckled and returned his attention to the toilet bowl. “Yes, and Sunday tea with the Queen. Now quit your sulking and grab a nosh downstairs, I need to finish the loo and the sitting room before I tackle meal prep, yeah?”

“A nosh, John? Really?”

“Just trying to make you feel at home.”

John could feel the exaggerated eye roll and swirl of dressing gown behind him, but paid it no mind. There was too much to do before sunset to waste time with dramatics, and anyway, he was sure there’d be plenty of that to go around at the Seder itself. At least life with Sherlock was never boring. Petty and ridiculous at times, but never boring.

 

* * *

 

Molly and Greg arrived promptly at seven, as the last golden rays of late afternoon melted into evening, filling the flat with a warm cosy glow. Mrs Hudson brought them upstairs with inquiries about their days, and the three of them chatted in the sitting room while John attended to the various pots on the hob and Sherlock did whatever was keeping him busy in the bedroom (most likely fixing his hair for the fifth time, the vain git). By seven-thirty they were sipping cocktails and nibbling hors d'oeuvres and enjoying the soft fade of light through the window and the rich smells emanating from the kitchen.

“So!” Greg said with a clap of his hands and a grin to John, who was hanging back in the doorway, wiping his hands with a tea towel. “When does this thing start?”

“S’posed to wait ‘til sundown, but we can get settled at the table soon. That is, once His Highness graces us with his presence.” He turned to holler over his shoulder, “Oi! Sherlock! Get your arse out here and say hi to our guests!”

A second later Sherlock emerged from their bedroom, looking stunning in a deep navy suit and crisp white shirt and grumbling under his breath.

“It’s just Hudders and Lestrade and Molly, hardly guests, John.”

“Cheers mate,” Greg replied amiably, and finished off his drink.

“Happy Passover, Sherlock,” Molly said, raising her glass.

“If you say so.”

“Manners!” Mrs Hudson scolded. “Don’t mind him, love, he’s just cross that we started without him. But really, what did you expect, Sherlock, we can’t wait for you all night.”

“I am not cross, Mrs Hudson. I just don’t see why you are all here to celebrate something that none of us cares about. As the only person of Jewish descent here you’d think I’d have some say in the matter, but apparently not.”

John cleared his throat loudly.

“And with that, I think it’s time to begin. Shall we?”

He ushered them into the kitchen, ignoring the glower coming from Sherlock’s general vicinity. As Mrs Hudson passed him, she patted his arm.

“Don’t listen to him, this is lovely. I haven’t had a Seder since the early years with Frank, back when we were on good terms with his folks. This is quite the treat for me!”

“Oh, I didn’t know Mr Hudson was Jewish.”

“Well, half-Jewish, on his mother’s side, like Sherlock.” She beamed up at John. “This is a wonderful gift. Almost makes me nostalgic for the old days.” She shook her head a little at the memories and took the seat at John’s side, evidently positioning herself to help with the food service. Molly and Greg were already seated across from them, and John gestured to his other side, indicating Sherlock’s place at the head of the table. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then strode over to his seat and lowered himself into his chair like a king on a throne, chin lifted and jaw set. Wonderful, they were going to be treated to the royal act tonight. At least he was deigning to sit at the table; thank heaven for small miracles.

“So…” John began, looking around the table and braving a smile. “Thank you all for joining us tonight for our first Passover Seder. Uh, you’ll see we have these books here—” He lifted the thin paperback on his plate, and Greg and Molly picked theirs up too. “They’re called Haggadahs—”

“Haggadot,” Sherlock corrected.

“Right, Haggadot, and they’ll help guide us through the Seder. Um, so let’s start at the beginning…”

“Brilliant idea, John.”

“Shut up.” He opened the book, frowned at the page number, then flipped to the back. “Ah, yeah, these books are printed backwards, so keep that in mind.”

Sherlock sighed loudly next to him.

“Looks like the candles are first,” John continued, undeterred. “Sherlock, would you like to do the honours?” He had placed the white tapers at the head of the table, knowing that Sherlock was reliably interested whenever a flame was involved, and was unlikely to cede the opportunity to set something on fire. True to form, Sherlock picked up the matches next to his plate with minimal pouting.

“What about these things?” Greg asked, spinning a kippah on his finger like a frisbee. “They’re little hats, yeah?”

“Kippot,” Sherlock muttered.

“Oh, right, sorry, we should put those on first,” John said, hastily grabbing the crocheted disc from his plate and setting it on his head. He’d forgotten about it, tucked under his haggadah as it’d been. Molly turned hers over slowly, admiring the Star of David design.

“These are beautiful.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs Hudson said.

“Wait, you made these?” Molly’s eyes grew comically wide and she examined the kippah closer.

“Oh, it was nothing, whipped them out over a couple episodes of EastEnders this week. Keeps the hands nimble, you know.”

Sherlock was frowning at the kippah on his plate.

“I am not wearing one of those… _things_.”

“Sherlock…” John started, already dreading the coming snit.

“They are artifacts of an irrelevant culture to which none of us adheres. If we were to follow the letter of the law, then we would always wear these unfashionable accessories, which we clearly do not. And even within Jewish lore there is dispute as to whether they should be worn by everyone, or only worn by married men, in which case no one at this table would need bother with these silly scraps. Either way, it makes no sense whatsoever for us to randomly wear them for one night. Utterly useless.” He crossed his arms to punctuate his little tirade.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Greg said, patting the kippah into place on the back of his head. “Works well to cover up any bald spots.”

“You aren’t going bald, Greg.” Molly ran a hand through the thick fuzz of silver hair just below the skullcap, and gave the back of his neck a reassuring squeeze.

“Maybe not yet, but still, clever design. Might have to convert in a few years just to appease my vanity.”

“Ah, vanity!” Molly’s eyes glinted with mischief as she looked back at Sherlock. “I think I just discovered the source of the problem.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do. Wouldn’t want to disturb that perfect head of hair, now would we?” she teased.

“Enough.” John grabbed the kippah from Sherlock’s plate. “You are going wear this, and you are going to light the candles and sing the blessings and stop behaving like a child, or so help me I’ll send you to bed without any supper.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John cut him off with a stern look, and placed the kippah atop his voluminous curls. The small cap promptly slid off his head and onto the floor. Molly burst into giggles. Sherlock glared at the offending garment and made no move to pick it up. John sighed. It was going to be a long night.

After she composed herself, Molly produced bobby pins from her purse, affixing the kippot on her own, Sherlock’s, and Mrs Hudson’s heads in turn. Sherlock continued to glare through the proceedings, this time directed at John, who grinned cheerily back.

“All set? The prayers for the candles are on page 3.”

“What’s all this in parentheses?” Greg asked. “ _If the Passover Seder falls on Shabbat, include the italicised parentheticals._ Friday night, that’s Shabbat, yeah?”

“Oh excellent,” Sherlock said, every syllable drawn out with exaggerated sarcasm. “This interminable evening is to be extended to its most excruciating lengths. Fantastic.”

“Well, we’d best get started then,” John rejoined, looking pointedly to the matches in Sherlock’s hand.

“Technically Mrs Hudson should be doing this, she’s the lady of the house,” Sherlock groused, but took out a match.

“Oh no, dear, I couldn’t possibly. It’s been ages since I sat in on a Seder, and I never properly learned the tunes. Besides, you have such a lovely voice.”

“Fine.” He struck the match, and began the service. And John might be biased, but he had to agree: Sherlock had a lovely voice. Though perhaps lovely wasn’t quite the word for it. Stunning might be more accurate. Breathtaking, most definitely. His deep velvet baritone wove its way through the ancient Hebrew prayers, smoothing silken melodies over rough consonants and uvular fricatives like honey over sand. Mesmerising, was what it was, headier than the four cups of wine they'd be drinking that evening, and John was enraptured. Sherlock transitioned through the prayers seamlessly, barely even pausing for breath until they were suddenly lifting their glasses and drinking their first of the night. Well, second if you counted the cocktails, but John didn't think they really counted, at least not in the eyes of the Lord.

“Lean to your left when you drink,” Sherlock instructed, and Greg mock-swooned onto Molly's shoulder, which sent her into giggles that turned to hiccups that turned to snort laughs and disapproving looks from Sherlock. They finally quieted down and finished their wine.

From there, Sherlock took control of the Seder, as John knew he would. Sure, he got rather lost on tangents when explaining the symbology of the various items on the Seder plate, but Molly and Greg listened attentively, and his rapid fire monologues had always fascinated John, and they eventually got back on track. There was hand washing and more hors d'oeuvres courtesy of the Seder plate, and when Sherlock broke the centre matzah, John snagged the afikomen from his hand, insisting he would be hiding it that night.

“Do you really think you can hide anything from me?” Sherlock chided.

John just smiled back at him and poured the second cups of wine.

“So, four questions next?” Greg asked, flipping ahead.

“And now we come to the dullest portion of the evening, which is really saying something.”

John kicked Sherlock under the table.

“Behave.”

“But John, it's the same questions. Every. Year.”

“Yeah, well some of us have never heard them, so zip it.”

“It says here that the youngest child's supposed to ask ‘em.” Greg grinned at Sherlock. “Guess at this table, that's you.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

“You are the youngest, dear,” Mrs Hudson said reasonably.

“Absolutely not. I was forced to recite these imbecilic queries for almost a decade, and when I finally came of age and had the ability to abstain I swore I would never utter them again. Anyway, I'm the one who's going to be answering them aren't I, and I refuse to make the procedure even more inane by having a conversation with myself. If we must go through this pointless ritual, then Molly can do it. She’s only a few months older than I am.”

“Nine,” she corrected, but she read through the four questions in English, and Sherlock briskly answered them, clearly eager to move on.

“More questions!” Greg chortled when they turned the page. “Hmm, were you the wise son or the wicked son?” His eyes glittered with mirth. “I know where I’d place my bets.”

“Neither,” Sherlock said petulantly.

“Oh, so you were the simple one?”

“Alright, boys, that’s enough,” John said, cutting off whatever indignant invective was sure to spew from Sherlock’s mouth next.

They managed to make it through the four sons and Rabbinical parables with minimal bickering, and then Sherlock launched into a diatribe on the historical inaccuracies of the haggadah’s retelling of Exodus, which John finally had to curtail with a polite but loud, “and now we’re free, amen,” to which everyone responded, “Amen.” They moved on to the plagues, which both Sherlock and Molly seemed captivated by with an almost indecent level of interest, but John supposed that was just the morbid draw of pestilence at work. They muddled their way through Dayenu, the endless verses blessedly concluding with the second cup of wine, and then it was more hand washing and Seder plate hors d’oeuvres. Sherlock presided over all the prayers, and while the rest of the party dutifully followed along with the English translations in their haggadot, John found himself entranced by Sherlock’s rich voice as it sinuously wrapped around the unfamiliar sounds. He frequently lost track of what page they were on, and had to peek over Mrs Hudson’s shoulder to catch up, but no one else seemed to notice his distraction.

At last they reached the Passover meal, gefilte fish and matzo ball soup, followed by brisket and potatoes and carrots slathered in a meaty gravy. Sherlock poked at the fish, slurped at the soup, and polished off his entire plate of meat and potatoes. All in all, it was more food than he’d eaten in one sitting since Chanukah, and John considered it a success. Halfway through the meal, John excused himself to use the loo, taking the folded napkin containing the afikomen with him. Sherlock’s gaze followed him out the room, and when he returned a few minutes later empty handed, those cool grey eyes narrowed. John ignored the probing look and continued to eat, making easy conversation with Greg about his day at The Yard, and the aftermath of the case they’d assisted on this week. As soon as Sherlock finished his brisket, he was out of his chair with a muttered, “Toilet.” Twenty minutes later, the dinner plates had been cleared and dessert had been served and he was still absent from the table.

“Sherlock?” John called. “Everything okay?” The bedroom door slammed open and Sherlock stormed back into the kitchen.

“No, everything is not ‘okay’, John. Where is it?” He loomed over John, who took a few steps back.

“Where is what?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, where is it? Where is the afikomen?”

He stalked closer, forcing John towards the wall.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John tried in his most guileless voice, though he couldn’t help adding, “But then, I’m not a great detective.”

Sherlock snarled and pressed closer, crowding John until his back hit the wall with an audible crunch. Sherlock’s eyes flew wide with epiphany, and then those long, perpetually cold fingers were under John’s shirt, tickling his sides.

“Hey!” John gasped between giggles. “Stop… that!”

“Then just let me…” Sherlock worked his fingertips in between the tight press of John’s back to the wall, thumbs still stroking John’s sides to make him wriggle and squirm, and then he had it, fingers closing around the thin packet of napkin and crushed matzah, and John yielded, let him slide the prize from where it’d been tucked in the back of his waistband. “Really, John, hiding the afikomen in your pants?”

John shrugged.

“Stumped you.”

“I found it in the end.” A wicked grin stole over Sherlock’s face. “And now that I’ve got it, we can’t finish the Seder unless you give me what I want.”

John had read about this tradition, where the children would hold the afikomen for ransom from the adults, usually for a few silver dollars or a bag of chocolate gelt. He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t be as easily bribed.

“What do you want?” he asked, dreading the answer. Probably permission to keep toes in the crisper or set up a lab in the bedroom or some other invasion of what little non-toxic space the flat yet retained.

Sherlock eyes flashed with sudden heat.

“I want you to put on your old army fatigues after everyone has left and take me over the kitchen table with—”

“Sherlock!” John was beet red. “We still have company,” he gritted out, nodding to the table in question, where Greg and Molly were valiantly trying to pretend they couldn’t hear a thing while Mrs Hudson tilted her head towards them for better reception. “Why don’t we discuss this later?”

“But we need to agree to terms now, otherwise the verbal contract is useless.”

“I’ll tell you what. Tonight, we’re doing the Seder, okay? Tomorrow night, we can do anything— and I do mean anything— you want. Deal?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, but after a minute, he lowered the afikomen from where he’d held it out of John’s reach.

“Fine.” He offered the crumpled matzah-filled napkin to John, but didn’t release it immediately, instead leaning in close to purr, “I intend to hold you to your word, Captain.” John rolled his eyes and snatched the afikomen from his grip, willing his blush to recede. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat and turning back to their guests. “Dessert, anyone?”

They concluded the meal to the dulcet sound of Sherlock’s voice singing the Birkat, and toasted both him and the delicious food with the third cup of wine. By this point, Molly was collapsed against Greg, leaning to the side more out of necessity than observance, and the snort-laugh hiccups were dangerously close to making a reappearance.

As if to nip this in the bud, Sherlock abruptly stood and went to the window, throwing it open to the cool night air. He lifted his violin from its case, tested the strings, and then launched into one of the most hauntingly sweet melodies John had ever heard him play. The air grew thick with the melancholic beauty of it, and John was transported back to a Christmas past when Sherlock had serenaded the memory of the woman who outwitted him, while John had looked on with a mix of painful jealousy and futile sympathy.

How much things had changed since then.

John shook himself from his reverie as the song came to a close, only then noticing the tears in Mrs Hudson’s eyes.

“That brings back the memories. Though I’ve never heard Eliyahu on the violin, and so beautifully played too. Thank you, dear.”

Sherlock inclined his head in an echo of a bow.

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. “We need to fill a glass for Elijah too, don’t we?”

“A wasteful practice,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Still, best to be on the safe side with these things,” she said as she pulled an extra wineglass from the cupboard. “And I’m sure it will be put to good use after the Seder ends.” She winked at John. “Play it again, Sherlock, and I’ll open the door this time. Let’s do this proper.”

“If you mean to follow the true intent of the ritual, you should bring down the rest of the brisket, Mrs Hudson. It seems a few of my homeless network are out tonight, and I’m sure Chris and Emma would appreciate a warm meal.”

“That’s a lovely idea, dear. I’ve got a kugel downstairs that I was saving for tomorrow, being dairy and all, but it’d be more use to them than to us.”

Molly jumped to her feet, wobbling a little at being suddenly vertical.

“I’ll help!”

“I’ll help too,” Greg added, putting a hand on her elbow to steady her.

They quickly packed up the leftovers while John went down to 221A for the kugel, and then they were all out on the front stoop, passing out food to the Baker Street irregulars while the plaintive strains of the violin drifted out from the window above.

When they returned to the flat, Sherlock informed them that he had played through the various post-meal songs, so there was no need for them to try to stumble over the transliteration of tunes they didn’t know. John figured he had a point there, and the music they’d been treated to was undoubtedly superior to _his_ singing voice, anyway. It seemed appropriate that the final exaltations to God had come from Sherlock’s violin, as he had always been more adept at communicating his emotions through music than words, and John couldn’t imagine any God that wouldn’t feel honoured and cherished by such a performance.

They managed to finish off the fourth cup of wine, with Greg giving thanks aloud that they had opted to take a cab over rather than the Beemer.

“Would have to ticket myself tonight, and that’d be a piss-poor way to end the evening.”

They all talk-sung their way through the final prayer, and then it was hugs and goodbyes, with calls of “Next year in Jerusalem!” to see Molly and Greg off, and kisses from Mrs Hudson with promises to make another kugel for them tomorrow.

It was past midnight when John and Sherlock finally had the flat to themselves again. John puttered around in the kitchen, drying the last of the dishes that Greg and Molly had graciously washed. He looked up to see Sherlock hovering in the doorway, watching him with a soft gaze. John hung the tea towel on the hob and walked over to him.

“All right?”

“All right.”

They looked at each other for a few moments, both wine-loose and slightly fuzzy at the edges. Sherlock blinked, then took the kippah from John’s head and tossed it on the table.

“Better.”

John chuckled, and patted self-consciously at the back of his head.

“I was starting to get used to it. Keeps the noggin warm.”

Sherlock suddenly remembered his own skullcap and yanked it off, forgetting the pin that held it in place.

“Ow!”

“Hold on a second, will you?” John reached up and carefully removed the fastener from his curls, and Sherlock threw his yarmulke next to John’s with undue force.

“Much better.”

“I don’t know. I think it suits you.”

Sherlock made a face, but it quickly melted into something sweeter, and almost shy.

“Thank you, for this.” He gestured at the kitchen table, managing to encompass the whole evening with a twirl of his wrist. “It was… nice.”

“It was, wasn’t it.”

Sherlock nodded, gaze going a bit misty, and bent to press a solemn kiss to John’s lips. When he drew back, John grinned up at him, eyes sparkling.

“So, we’re on for next year?”

Sherlock returned a slow, sly smile. “We’ll see.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and taking a chance on what undoubtedly a _very_ niche genre of Sherlock fic! Apropos of nothing in this fic, I wanted to mention that this year is 5777 on the Hebrew calendar. As a Jewish Johnlocker, this makes me very happy *^_^*
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!


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